, and
is so, necessary to the managing of the Irish peasantry in the way
they are managed. Pat Brady was all this; moreover, he had as little
compunction in driving the cow or the only pig from his neighbour
or cousin, and in selling off the oats or potatoes of his uncle
or brother-in-law, as if he was doing that which would be quite
agreeable to them. But still he was liked on the estate; he had a
manner with him which had its charms to them; he was a kind of leader
to them in their agrarian feelings and troubles; and though the
tenants of Ballycloran half feared, they all liked and courted Pat
Brady.

The most remarkable feature in his personal appearance was a broken
nose; not a common, ordinary broken nose, such as would give it an
apparent partiality to the right or left cheek, nor such as would, by
indenting it, give the face that good-natured look which Irish broken
noses usually possess. Pat Brady's broken nose was all but flattened
on to his face, as if it had never lifted its head after the fatal
blow which had laid it low. He was strong-built, round-shouldered,
bow-legged, about five feet six in height, and he had that kind of
external respectability about him, which a tolerably decent hat,
strong brogues, and worsted stockings give to a man, when those among
whom he lives are without such luxuries. When I add to the above
particulars that Pat was chief minister, adviser, and confidential
manager in young Macdermot's affairs, I have said all that need be
said. The development of his character must be left to disclose
itself.

"Well, Pat," began his master, seating himself on the solitary old
chair, which, with a still older looking desk on four shaking legs,
comprised the furniture of Macdermot's rent-office, "what news from
Mohill to-day? was there much in the fair at all?"

"Well, yer honor, then, for them as had money to buy, the fair was
good enough; but for them as had money to get, it was as bad as them
that wor afore it, and as them as is likely to come afther it."

"Were the boys in it, Pat?"

"They wor, yer honor, the most of 'em."

"Well, Pat?"

"Oh, they wor just there, that's all."

"Tim Brady should have got the top price for that oats of his, Pat."

"Maybe he might, Masther Thady."

"What did he get? there should be twelve barrels there."

"Eleven, or thereabouts, yer honor."

"Did he sell it all, yesterday?"

"Divil a grain, then, at all at all, he took to the fair yesterday."